…and nothing ever blooms

In my dreams, I still walk here
not for answers, for I know
they will never be mine
but this desolate place will always be
my own personal winter
a place of shadows, of trembling lace
and fragile silence, a place of memories
of devastating loss and sweet sorrow
for no rage can burn my grief away

here in this quiet, familiar place
I light a candle and speak your name
I hear the soft hush of slow beating wings
as the moths gather
drawn to the flickering light
they settle softly, just out of my reach
and the dark irony of their distance
is never lost to me

their wings slowly beating
softly whispering in secret codes
as if they too, feel your presence
the night responds with a silken hush
that I cannot see, nor deny
I hear your voice in the ethers of time
a sacred hymn in familiar tones
as you step through the veils
that the dead call home

every thread, that bound our hearts
still binds us here in this distant place
in this moment of brevity
dancers hand in hand, lost in time
our souls bared in parallel mirrors
where infinite reflections
form from all directions
we feel what silence can never convey
you kiss my brow and turn away
slowly vanishing, like the scent of rain

I do not grieve for you, not anymore
for the threads of your soul are always here
in this dark place of love and loss
and you, yourself, are always here
a fragile silhouette, that isn’t really here
a seemingly weightless ghost
now ever etched within my heart
that once grew heavy with the loss

although I heard those beating wings
and although I heard you breathing
I now finally understand
that I am waiting for someone
who can never, ever return
I know it now, I knew it then
for you are lost to eternity
and I still linger here
haunted by your echoes
as they retreat into the silence
for this is where the echoes die
and nothing ever blooms
© Ann Bagnall